


Aye, There's The Rub

by wellmet



Category: Bond/past lovers/Q, James Bond (Craig movies)
Genre: After death but happy ending, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-24
Updated: 2016-03-24
Packaged: 2018-05-28 17:19:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,029
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6338215
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wellmet/pseuds/wellmet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What happens after all those great death stories.  Meetings and thoughts but happy ending</p>
            </blockquote>





	Aye, There's The Rub

AYE, THERE'S THE RUB.

Meretseger 

James Bond woke, feeling comfortable against the soft cotton sheets. He could tell from the weight that he was covered with a couple of blankets and when he opened his eyes just enough to see where he was he saw the coloured edge of a patchwork quilt as well. The light was soft, early morning rather than cloudy, and the bed he was lying in was big with lots of pillows and a well padded mattress. Not a hospital bed then … he wondered where he was. If he was still alive he should be in a hospital. Not that he had expected to be still alive, after years as an agent of the British Secret Service he knew a killing wound when he felt one. 

Still feigning sleep he rolled over onto one side so he could see the room he was in in more detail. The walls were white painted rough textured plaster, the floor light coloured wood covered with matching rugs in dark blue bordered with deep red and scattered with gold suns and moons. He opened his eyes a little wider when there seemed to be no immediate threat. The window near the head of the bed had wooden Venetian blinds instead of curtains and the slats were angled to let in the light just enough to light the room. The bed, surprisingly, was high-Victorian brass at the head and foot. Bond frowned - this wasn't Medical back at headquarters in London but there seemed to be no threat and he was not in pain from the wounds he had received when the warehouse blew up. He was familiar with the numbness that came with painkillers and this was not that; he just felt relaxed, pain free and at ease. The frown did not go away, he was suspicious since he seldom had the luxury of feeling so at ease and relaxed. But he did not feel threatened or suspicious and without him realising it he went back to sleep.

When Bond woke it was morning. He stretched, enjoying the pull of relaxed muscles. His foot brushed another leg and he tensed. He stilled, trying to assess the situation.

"You're awake, James. It's about time." The voice was dark, amused and had a Russian accent! Alec? It couldn't be Alec, 006, was dead. He'd killed the man himself, seen him die in bowl of the Arecibo radio telescope after Trevalyn had turned out to be alive and a traitor to his country.

James rolled over, fists raised but he couldn't hit that face, not anymore. Alex Trevalyn had been his best friend, sometime lover, for years before that disastrous operation to Archangel. He'd blown up his friend, the one person he loved and trusted, at that friend's urging: "For England, James." He'd answered, meeting his friend's eyes, "For England.". And now here was Alec, his face unscarred by the heat of the C4 he, James, had planted with a shorter timing; his smile was as broad as ever, his eyes as wickedly glittering as they did when they were planning to blow something up. 

"Alec!?" Bond couldn't help but look at that broad, wonderful smiling face. "You're dead."

"And so are you, my friend." Alec pushed himself up on one elbow so he could look at James. "Welcome to where ever we are."

James frowned, but could not resist reaching out to touch the face of the man he had loved, 'with a love surpassing that of woman.' "What do you mean, 'where ever we are?"

Before Alec could answer James felt a tiredness come over him and, relaxed and easy in his mind, Bond rolled over onto his back and fell into a deep sleep. 

James Bond woke, feeling comfortable against the soft cotton sheets. He could tell from the weight that he was covered with a couple of blankets and when he opened his eyes just enough to see where he was he saw the coloured edge of a patchwork quilt as well. The light was soft, early morning rather than cloudy, and the bed he was lying in was big with lots of pillows and a well padded mattress. Not a hospital bed then … he wondered where he was. If he was still alive he should be in a hospital. Not that he had expected to be still alive, after years as an agent of the British Secret Service he knew a killing wound when he felt one. Feigning sleep he rolled over to look at the room. It felt comfortable and he knew it posed no threat. 

James stretched, feeling the pleasant pull of well rested muscles and his foot touched a smooth skinned leg. Surprised he turned and smiled, remembering ... "Teresea!" He lifted a hand to touch the beloved face and his wedding ring glowed in the morning light. 

"James." Her accent was soft, her smile wide and the way she purred his name made a shiver of pleasure run up his spine. "Now we have all the time in the world," his wife said as she reached out to bring his lips down to hers." *

The words felt like a cold shower and all James could remember was her body, slumped against his, her blood turning the grey of his coat to deep, blood red. He pulled back. "Teresea? But you're dead!"

"So are you James," Teresea purred. 

Bond pulled back, shaking with a horrible mixture of memory and fear. Before he could say more a tiredness came over him and, relaxed and easy in his mind, Bond rolled over onto his back and fell into a deep sleep. 

 

James Bond woke, feeling comfortable against the soft cotton sheets. He could tell from the weight that he was covered with a couple of blankets and when he opened his eyes just enough to see where he was he saw the coloured edge of a patchwork quilt as well. The light was soft, early morning rather than cloudy, and the bed he was lying in was big with lots of pillows and a well padded mattress. Not a hospital bed then … he wondered where he was. If he was still alive he should be in a hospital. Not that he had expected to be still alive, after years as an agent of the British Secret Service he knew a killing wound when he felt one. Feigning sleep he rolled over to look at the room. It felt comfortable and he knew it posed no threat. 

James stretched, feeling the pleasant pull of well rested muscles. There was somebody in the bed with him and he turned. Vesper, smiling at him, the Algerian love knot resting against her throat. 

"Good morning James. I've bought you something suitable to wear."

Bond frowned. He remembered her attempt to analyse his past, the tailored tuxedo she had bought because she hadn't noticed that the one he already had was better made. His background was landed money and she had pictured him uncomfortable at some local grammar school whereas he had the pleasure of being expelled from Eton. But he'd played along with her false ideas, intrigued by her prickly front, determined to seduce her and melt the coldness of her manner. 

"You're dead," Bond managed, his throat thick with sadness. "You drowned in Venice!" She had betrayed him because in the end she had loved another man more than she had loved him. Before he could remember any more a tiredness came over him and, relaxed and easy in his mind, Bond rolled over onto his back and fell into a deep sleep. 

 

James Bond woke, feeling comfortable against the soft cotton sheets. He could tell from the weight that he was covered with a couple of blankets and when he opened his eyes just enough to see where he was he saw the coloured edge of a patchwork quilt as well. The light was soft, early morning rather than cloudy, and the bed he was lying in was big with lots of pillows and a well padded mattress. Not a hospital bed then … he wondered where he was. If he was still alive he should be in a hospital. Not that he had expected to be still alive, after years as an agent of the British Secret Service he knew a killing wound when he felt one. Feigning sleep he rolled over to look at the room. It felt comfortable and he knew it posed no threat. 

James stretched, feeling the pleasant pull of well rested muscles. There was somebody sitting on the opposite side of the bed, twisted to look at him.

"I'm pleased that you are awake at last, 007."

Bond smiled, he knew that voice. "Good morning, M." The head of MI6 looked like she had the day she had given him his licence to kill. Those pale eyes were as sharp as spears, her voice decisive. With her there was never any doubt who was the boss and who the instrument she used. He sat up; it had been too long since he last seen her.

Skyfall. He remembered his childhood home; the dark walls and the moors stretching up to the mountains his parents had loved more than him. The house that no longer existed, blown to bits. And M, bleeding to death, dieing in his arms in the cold chapel of a god he had never believed in. 

Bond remembered the weight of this small woman, bird like, slight even in death. "You're dead." 

"Of course I am, 007," the words were characteristically sharp. "And so are you. But you need to make up your mind, you know."

"What… I don't understand," Bond protested. 

The lines around her eyes eased a little, the grim expression lightened. "Yes, I can see that you don't." 

Before he could remember any more a tiredness came over him and, relaxed and easy in his mind, Bond rolled over onto his back and fell into a deep sleep. 

 

James Bond woke, feeling comfortable against the soft cotton sheets. He could tell from the weight that he was covered with a couple of blankets and when he opened his eyes just enough to see where he was he saw the coloured edge of a patchwork quilt as well. The light was soft, early morning rather than cloudy, and the bed he was lying in was big with lots of pillows and a well padded mattress. Not a hospital bed then … he wondered where he was. If he was still alive he should be in a hospital. Not that he had expected to be still alive, after years as an agent of the British Secret Service he knew a killing wound when he felt one. Feigning sleep he rolled over to look at the room. It felt comfortable and he knew it posed no threat. 

James stretched, feeling the pleasant pull of well rested muscles. There was somebody sitting on the opposite side of the bed, twisted to look at him.

"Madelaine!" James said sat up, pleased to see the woman he had loved, who had proved herself strong and - in the end - wise and generous enough to let him go back to the only world he knew, to the only place he belonged. He faltered. "You're not dead. You can't be!" The last he had seen of her was at Paris airport as she boarded a flight for Zurich.

"Oh, James," the smile was tender, understanding. "Time does not exist here."

At least with this woman there were no poisonous memories. "Why are you here? Are we to be together now?" She was interesting, well educated as well as beautiful and she liked sex as much as he did. It would be nice to spend eternity with this woman.

"Would you like that, James?" 

Then he remembered. They were too different for all their likenesses. "I'm not sure," Bond confessed. 

"Honesty at least," Madeleine said, with that same generous smile she had used to send him back to England. Before he could remember any more a tiredness came over him and, relaxed and easy in his mind, Bond rolled over onto his back and fell into a deep sleep. 

 

James Bond woke, feeling comfortable against the soft cotton sheets. He could tell from the weight that he was covered with a couple of blankets and when he opened his eyes just enough to see where he was he saw the coloured edge of a patchwork quilt as well. The light was soft, early morning rather than cloudy, and the bed he was lying in was big with lots of pillows and a well padded mattress. Not a hospital bed then … he wondered where he was. If he was still alive he should be in a hospital. Not that he had expected to be still alive, after years as an agent of the British Secret Service he knew a killing wound when he felt one. Feigning sleep he rolled over to look at the room. It felt comfortable and he knew it posed no threat. 

James stretched, feeling the pleasant pull of well rested muscles. There was somebody sitting alongside him on the bed. He could hear a soft tapping that seemed familiar.

"Q!?" James sat, turning to smile at the slight young man who sat propped up on a pile of pillows typing something into his lap top computer. 

"Bond." The Quartermaster of MI6 cast him a look through his thick glasses and went back to his typing. "I hope you're glad to see me."

Bond looked down, faking a look of contrition. "I don't think I can return any of the tech you gave me." It was a familiar response and Q rolled his eyes but smiled anyway as he shut the lap top, leaving it resting on his lap. He was wearing that awful blue check suit - the one he surely knew made Bond's perfectly cut hair bristle. The young man picked up his messenger bag from by his side of the bed and took out a silver Parker pen. "Treat it carefully, James, it explodes."

James smiled. Q had always refused to make him an exploding pen. His predecessor had made them for the double 0 agents but the twenty first century Quartermaster had deemed them old fashioned. 

James smiled, clicking at the button on the top. Q rolled his eyes and said, "I hope you're keeping count of the clicks, Bond." But he didn't really seem worried.

Bond, smirked, clicked the button one more time and said, "Are you dead too?" He didn't like to think of this wonderful man dead, his brilliant mind and snarky wit silenced for ever. "When?"

"There is no time here, 007," Q answered. "Only time to spend together if that is what you and I want."

James remembered then, his return to MI6 headquarters, the surprised joy on Q's face when he had returned the Aston Martin, polished and cleaned, and as perfect as when Q had let him steal it that night he had resigned and driven away with the woman he loved. And he remembered the pain in the green eyes when he had taken the car keys. 

"You had a crush on me, that night I took the Aston Martin," James said, remembering. "I realised when I returned it." Q blushed and nodded. "I asked you to go out to dinner with me."

"And I said, 'no thank you, 007.'," Q stated. "I didn't think I could stand the humiliation of being left when you tired of me. And you only like women!"

"Many women," Bond confessed. "But only one man. You." It had taken time, time for the young boffin to realise that Bond wanted more than a one night stand. That was something James had to thank Madeleine for; it was she who had told him to look for someone who shared his world, who would send him out to kill and destroy and then welcome him home to relax and find himself.

And Q had done that; allowed him to be 007, allowed himself to be the Quartermaster who always brought his double 0's home. Nearly always. Not that last time, though.

"I'm sorry," James said, moving the lap top out of the way and pulling his lover into a kiss that brought back many happy memories. "For not coming back to you."

The kiss was long and passionate and when they broke it to breathe Q shook his head, running his hands through the blond spikes of his lover's hair. "There's an old Celtic saying James; 'Merry meet'." He kissed James, hair, soft spikes he loved to run through with his hands; " 'Merry part'." He kissed the ice blue eyes that softened only for him; " 'Merry meet again'." He kissed the lips that smiled only for him. 

James didn't feel tired. He felt like a long hot shower, a full English breakfast and a day in bed with the man he loved. "'Merry meet again,' " he agreed. He hugged the slight body of his boffin tightly and felt it returned. "Oh, merry meet again. But no more merry part!"

Q laughed and shook his head. "No James, no more merry part." 

* This is taken from the theme song for OHMSS and is also the words Bond said to the policeman who found him and his dead wife at the side of the road after Blofeld killed her. At the time I assumed that he was aiming for Bond but now we know that he was really aiming at Teresa. 

The title is, of course, taken from Hamlet. I have read so many good death stories lately and enjoyed reading them. But there is a part of me that always wants to know what happened afterwards. I don't think this is what Heaven is like, I am looking forward to 'the vision glorious' but I sometimes hope that Terry Pratchett got it right - we get the Heaven we have always wanted and think we deserve. I wrote this story in an evening, and I plan to pour out wine and mead to my Muse.


End file.
